It Is Not His Fault
by BleedingJoyfulInsanity
Summary: Gamzee and John have been living together since that fateful day Gamzee had found John, bleeding, wounded, on the beach in front of his hive. They learn how to function around and with each other. They learn ABOUT each other. What they have done, what they wish to do and what they wish to be. This is their life. (In progress.)
1. Chapter 1

1.). This in a time line where Gamzee has started his dark carnival in Alternia.

2.). The Game hasn't had a chance to happen because the kids never found out about it. Or it wasn't intruduced to their world, I should say.

3.) He basically has killed off anyone he did in cannon, and then the rest of cannon just doesn't happen okay?

4.). Gamzee spends his time running off to kill whatever trolls he can find on Alternia when he's having a "Dark Carnival" moment or during a highblood rage. Gamzee does horrible stuff in this fic, guys. Bad stuff.

5.) Gamzee has been introduced to Kurloz via Trollian. His ancestor had been trolling him until he found out where he lived. Kurloz moved there immediately and spent the next two sweeps with Gamzee before he disappeared one morning. Gamzee assumed that Kutloz just left or finally reached majority and set off to claim some far away planet.

6.). John and Jade and the rest of the humans HAD entered their game however, and were fighting Jack.

7.). To be blank? They were losing. Badly.

8.). In this one, Jack got his shit together and didn't relie on the trolls (Especially since they weren't in the game.) and became the Black Emporer or whatever the frig it is he calls himself.

9.). Dave and Rose were in aprecautious postion (They were assumed dead by Jade and John.)and with their chances looking so bleak and the both of them already wounded, Jade decided that with her remaining strength she'd send (Teleport.) off John since he was the youngest and better off physically of the two. (He wasn't as close to death as she was.)

10.). Since she was so weak and she really couldn't focus on where she wanted to send him (And Earth was blown up WAAAAY beyond this point.)she focused on the thought of keeping her brother safe and teleported him, hoping that it worked.

11.). John ends up a couple planet's widths away from Alternia.

12.). He chockes until he smartens up and uses what ever wind powers he can to manipulate himself as far as he could into Alternia's hemisphere before he blacks out, hoping that his windy powers wouldn't fail him now of all times and would so him to a halt to prevent his almost certain death.

13.). He ends up waking up on a beach with purple and green skies. He concludes he's either dead or that he made it into the dark looking planet.

14.) From the pain in his body, he concludes that he didn't die. He controls his wind element and makes it drift him over the sand of the beach. It streches for miles. He hopes to find a house of some sort or a civilizied life for or just basically anything that could help him tend to his battered body and hopefully get back to Jade to make sure she was alive.

15.). He drifts until he vaguely sees a house in the distance(His eyes are starting to blur and warp things.). And he drifts toward it until his body just can't handle it anymore, and his wind drops him, and he falls toward the sand.

16.). Gamzee had been wandering out of his hive again and plans to go sit and watch the waves.

17.). He gets almost all the way to his normal spot when he notices a crumpled figure about two-three lawnrins length away from him.

18.). Gamzee is curious about the figure(A part of him mad that a low blood had the audacity to wander into his territory.)and goes to see him.

19.). Upon arrival the smell of blood is evident and the stillness of it is also obivious.

20.). From what he can see, the clothes were originally a blue color but the red-ish blood pipes him curiousity up a notch.

21.) Gamzee goes over to investigate and straitends out the crumpled visiage of the troll.

22.). Gamzee notices the difference between their species and has taken an interest in John.

23.). John wakes up for a brief period, mumbles incoherent things at Gamzee like "Jade", "Jack", "Flying", "hdhhdnnn!"and Gamzee manages to get out of him that he was (Obviously.)hurt badly and needs help.

24.) Gamzee feels a bit of a more lenicy toward John because of the cereculan (Blue.)colored clothes he wore (Making him a high low blood on Alternia.), his odd hornless, clawless, blunt-toothed self, and because of the curiousity he feels toward how he got so hurt. (It is not like there are any High Subjuggaltors besides him and Gamzee has no idea where Kurloz is, sooo.)

25.). Gamzee takes him in and patches him up and listens to his story. He (Summing it up.)tells John that there is no way he can get back to his friends (No game, no teleporters or teleport powers, ext. . And John brakes down and cries.

26.). Gamzee is fasinated by the different colors of John's bodily fluids and let's him stay after they a certain that he's not a "mutant".

27.) I should also mentioned that John had landed in a position in the sand where it got into his eyes and is now partically blinded. John had also babbled something about his eyes to Gamzee when he just woke up, and Gamzee later flushed out his eyes.

28.) His eyes are still irriated severly though and can't see Gamzee's clownish features. That's why he's not freaking out about not liking clowns.

29.). He sees the horns and grey skin though and marvels/freaks out at that, but since he was on an alien planet, it doesn't freak him out as much as it would if Gamzee had suddenly appeared to him on his planet and he was meeting some form of alien life form for the first time.

30.). Gamzee offers to let him stay for a while (More like forces him to/doesn't give him a way out.)and John agrees to because he's really not in any condition to move, even if it wasn't as life threating as it had been when he had just waken up, now was it?

31.). (Summing it up.)Gamzee basically interigates John when they first start living together and after a while starts to view John as a friend.

32.). Their are lots of cuddles, and story telling, and the like. They get to know each other.

. 33.) Gamzee -with his developing like of John- has started to calm down and 3/4 of the time stopped going out on killings sprees in the name of his "Mirthful Messiahs".

34.). Their are a few high blood episodes when John was around, but they were close calls, and usually started because John said something concerning a crush of his at his old planet or because he had mentioned leaving in the future again. John basically had to -unintentionally/accidently- assure Gamzee that the crush was dead and the planet exploded, and that he wasn't going to and wouldn't be able to leave for quiet some time.

35.). Since Gamzee is a troll, he immediately starts to try and organize his feelings towards John as they grow stronger. (After a few pedigrees with John he arranges them into the flushed quadrant.)

.36.). In my AU Gamzee has a "saner" side to himself that is him when he's not on a highblood rage. This Gamzee feels regret and guilt and self-loathing for killing his friends, but there is still a large part of him that is glad that the lowblooded swill is gone, and so develops a habit of killing or self-harming when his emotions get torn in to seperate directions like that.

.37.). Even though Gamzee has fleetingly said that John was welcome there while he healed and perhaps a time after that, John still believes that he wasn't welcome there. (John has developed a slight insuperior complex do to leaving his friends behind and not saving them or taking their place. He feels like he is too weak to protect his loved ones. He feels like a coward and a desterter(?). Because of this he has deemed that he is not worthy of friends.)

38.). Gamzee also has a "alone" or "abandoned" complex that triggers him when he starts to see John as a friend and John starts to get better and insist on leaving him so he won't be a bother to Gamzee any more. (This also triggers some of the mentioned highblooded rages.)

* * *

><p>Anything behind that point isn't really planned out yet. I'll write and see where it takes me! (Salutes sassily.)<p>

P. S. The next two chapters are experts from a time in the future where Gamzee has stronger, unrequited flushed feelings for John and John once again actually manages to induce a highblood rage from Gamzee.

This time John had been preparing to leave and Gamzee caught him (Gamzee had been previously stressed out about something when he came to John that I'll mention later.)basically Gamzee deemed that his (Potential.)heart and matesprite was not going anywhere, was not leaving him, and tried to show his dominance over John in his highblooded rage instead of talking to him and trying to convince him to stay.

So, basically, Gamzee is going to force John not to leave by hurting him enough so that he is dependent on him again.

In the chapters next two chapters I describe Gamzee "stitching him back together" for a reason. (No actual limbs were removed though. Just nasty Gashes and broken bones and non-consentual content.)

John blocked the memories from his mind even though he still cares about Gamzee because they were too much for him to handle. That's why he doesn't remember Gamzee and is calling him "it".


	2. Chapter 2

You're shaking. Trembling.

Your knees give out and you slide down the wall, staring across the resiteblock but not really seeing it.

It wasn't his fault. You know it wasn't. He can't help it, and it's not like he's ever hurt you before, right? Right.

At least, not intentionally.

* * *

><p>You're sobbing. You're numb. You're hands are still stained red, blood starting to flake off of them.<p>

You stumble into the aublationblock(?), bumping into the walls on your shaky knees.

You scramble for the knobs on the shower. You need to get it off. (GetoffgetoffgetoffgetoffgetoffGETOFFGETOFFGETOFF!)

You can still feel it. The blood. His soft flesh giving at your touch. Vunerable. Exposed. Trusting.

You can still see his bright blue eyes going wide in shock. Betrayl. Pain.

You can feel your teeth (Razor sharp and unyielding to his delicate, fragile body.), your claws (Raking down his arms and sides, blood bubbling up, and over, over, over, over, OVER!) penetrating the unprotected valleies of his body.

You remember those deep, bright blue eyes, staring at you, (WELCOMING you, EXCEPTING you for what you are and were doing.) even as they were clouded over by pain.

You don't deserve him.

* * *

><p>You've gotten up. For once in you're life you're trying to not do something incrediblely stupid and have your poor host (Who's probably crying his eyes out, because it WASN'T his fault, and you should have just held him in your arms, and shushed him, and COMFORTED him, because it WASN'T his fault, and he COULDN'T CONTROL IT!) stumble in on you bleeding out on the floor (Probably thinking you're DEAD because of the stupid, far-away, glass-y look in your eyes.) and end up making an even bigger mess of the situation, 'cause YOU'RE JUST A MASSIVE FUCK UP THAT CAN'T DO ANYTHING RIGHT.<p>

You pull in a breath and bring your shaking arms to your chest gentlely probbing the wounds.

Ouch. Yeah, okay, dumbass, that probably WASN'T the brighteest idea on Earth.

Instead of further aggravating your wounds, (Thus causing them to bleed more.) you decide you'll have to remove your pants and shirt to further examine your situation.

It's a bitch and it involves much crying and wimping out, but after a good ten minutes your able to get you damn excuse of a shirt off.

You decide you're legs can wait since the upper part of your body had taken the main burnt of his rage and instead press the remants of the shirt to one of the bigger gaping holes in your side and start to make your way out of the room.

After having to sit down from dissiness and exhastion three times making your way down the fustratingly dark and long hallway, you decide you'll just have to locate Gamzee, and hope that he's in a mood to be able to help you.

Sighing, you stand up again, and start making your way toward the kitchen, hoping he had gone there to eat as slime pie (Yeah, RIGHT!) or maybe to fetch a faygo to help calm him down.

* * *

><p>You're a coward.<p>

You know you should be out there tending to your best bro, but you can't.

After scrubbing your skin raw, you jumped out of the shower, not turning it off, and had shoved your legs back into your spotted pants, eyes looking anywhere but your newly dyed-red shirt.

You'd started heading back in the direction of your bro, 'cause it was your your job to fix the shit you fucked up, right? It'd be unmirthful otherwise.

But then you'd actually started thinking about your bro. What you had done to him. How he reacted. How was he going to react to you now that everythings over with? Would he hate you? Motherfucker had a right to, after all.

The bro'd just brought all of these mirthful times and thoughts all up and around you and all up in your thinkpan since he'd arrived. Motherfuckers like that don't deserve to be practically mauled be there host, right? Right.

So, being the coward you were, your heart racing, a stinging behind your eyes, a shakiness in you knees, and a growing numbness seperating you from the world, you turned back, re-traced your steps, opened back up the door feet slaping against the wet floor, aand jumped back into the shower.

You curled up into a ball, and cried.

* * *

><p>You're crying. Tears are rolling down your cheeks, leaving trails of ice across your skin in cold room.<p>

He wasn't in the kitchen. And your shirt has already soaked through the shirt and coated your hand, painting it on whatever inches of your skin that weren't covered in it with the substance.

There's blood smears on the walls and floors. You're sure of it. You just can't bear the effort to turn around and look. You don't have any spare energy to waste.

You can't even feel the pain anymore. You've bleed so much that you're just in a stumbling haze as you wander the halls.

You can barely convince your brain to function. But, you've managed to conclude that if he wasn't in the kitchen and he wasn't in his resiteblock, then he was either in the front watching the waves of the sea, or he was in the bathroom.

Since you don't want to rub salt (Literally.)or sand in your wounds, you decide that there is only a twenty percent chance he might be outside, so there is no use even checking, when he is defintely in the abulationblock, right? Right.

You attempt to make your way to the abulationblock, making friends and enemies with the various walls and floors, tripping over empty faygo bottles and discarded pie tins that haven't seen a certain pair of grasping fingers in nearly a sweep and a half now.

You finally made your way to the aubaltionblock.

Deciding to be poliet, you greet the gracious door with a vigourous kiss as you fall forward.

It is only proper to greet such a fine Madam with as much enthusiasm as she does you, right? Right.

And you're absoultley certain that it wasn't because your knees couldn't hold you up anymore, and the world had suddenly became black, that you were greeting the door in such a fashion. No. You are John Eggbert, and you are not anything but the world's greatest prankster and most famous ladies' man.

You crumble into a graceless pile of limbs near the end of doorway.

* * *

><p>You're name is Gamzee Makara and through your somewhat-claming-down-hysterical-crying and the druming of the water in the shower, you thought you heard something outside the door.<p>

You don't want to get out of your temperary saftey haven, but, after all you've done to a motherfucker, it was the least you could do to answer the motherfucking door, right? Right.

And besides, who else could it be? There were only two motherfuckers in this hive or around for miles, in fact. One was being the unmirthful mass of motherfucking shit it was, and the other was most likely bleeding himself out on the other side of the door.

That or the Mirthful Messiahs had personally decided to punish a distugsting, useless peice of hoofbeast manuer like you.

Right, like somebody had or ever would be that merciful to him?

You decide to finally get it over with and stumble out of the shower, tripping and falling your way to the door.

You open it. And you stare.

* * *

><p>You knew it had to be him.<p>

Who else would it be?

* * *

><p>Still in shock, you manage to bend down and help a motherfucker out.<p>

You check his pulse. Feel his wrist. Let your eyes glance over his exposed wounds. (When did he remove his shirt?)

You take a deep breath and decide that you can, at the very least, tend to the wounds you inflicted on a brother, right? Right.

You rack your thinkpan trying to remember if you had or where you had put the medical supplies.

* * *

><p>They were under a festering pile of tolietries and old half full slipe pie tins.<p>

Unmirthful shit, right?

You pray to the Messiahs that the medical equiment is still usable.

* * *

><p>It is. Why did you ever doubt the Mirthful Messiahs? Who are you to question their majesty? Nobody but a faithful servent, that's who.<p>

* * *

><p>You pull out the rolls of bandages and cotton balls and the purifier liquid, along with disinfectant and cleaning wipes.<p>

You carefully set out to binding his wounds, trying to at least stop the blood flow.

Half way through your second roll of banadges, you realize that, unless you want to waste the remaining bandages and let a motherfucker die, your bro's going to need stitches.

* * *

><p>You luckly were able to find some of the more thread like string in your literal bro's room, before beating a hasty retreat even though said bro wasn't even at the hive. (And hadn't for quite some time.)<p>

And, you have a motherfucker to patch up, now don't you?

You make like the most mirthful of winds down the twisting halls to the abulationblock.

* * *

><p>It's weird, though a part of you gets some enjoyment out of it. You're threading together the pieces of your bro's skin like they're a roll of that wicked fabric from your bitchtits jade sis.<p>

You can't possiblely understand why your dancestor did this to himself purposely.

You continue putting together the shattered pieces of your secret flush crush.

* * *

><p>When you had finally stitched up all of the part of your bro that needed stitching and then some (There were too manytoomanytoomanyTOOMANYTOOMANY!) you went to work cleaning off the drying blood surrounding your bro's wounds and then started applying two more of the rolls of bandages around your bro's injuries.<p>

Huh. They seem to work a lot better now. Miracles.

* * *

><p>Now that you think about it, staring at your bro, you probably should have used the disinfectant and soothing potions for the pain.<p>

Well shit, a motherfucker could do it later, right? Right.

You continue to stare into space and wait for your bro to wake up, heedless of the crystal droplets rolling down his cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't wake up.

His heart still beats, though. At least, you think it does.

Maybe the mirthful humans stayed warm after death?

Miracles.

Maybe your bro wouldn't decompose, too. You wouldn't have to cut off his head that way, and could just spend time with your bro all in one peace.

This though makes you feel better.

You decide to wait a couple more days to see if an miracles feel like getting their bad selfs all up and on your bitchtits bro.

You stare, and wait.

* * *

><p>Pain. So much pain.<p>

That is the first and only thing you can think of when you regain consciousness.

It's dark, probably because you haven't opened your eyes yet.

Or are they?

You really just can't tell.

You can't here anything around you.

So you try to open your eyes.

They're too heavy.

And your whole body aches.

You can't remember how you had got this way.

You don't think you want to either.

Where was Jade? Was she alright?

Had she teleported away from Jack, too?

Was she in a similar condition?

Lying alone and hurt somewhere?

The thought causes you panic.

You try to move.

You can't.

You can't smell anything either, not really.

Just a faint, musty smell that could be anything.

It's something that reminds you of a woman's makeup and-. Is that grapes you smell?

Weird.

You stomache growls.

You fleetingly wonder if there is food nearby before you turn you turn back to the topic at hand.

You can also smell something else.

Something sharp, coppery.

You feel another jolt of pain this time and instinctively clench your stomache muscles.

Another wave of agonizing pain.

You vaguely conclude that the coppery smell must be the blood from your wounds that have to be the cause of your pain.

Why WERE you hurting again?

You can't remember.

You were fighting Jack and had a couple of bad stab wounds, multiple bruises and slashes going down the length of your bodyn and some bad bruising, but-.

Nothing that could have caused your current condition.

You weren't in that bad shape back then compaired to the agony of an existence that you're living now.

You were sure that when Jade teleported you you would end up somewhere safe.

Pleasent.

But you didn't.

You ended up in the middle of no-where.

In. Freaking. Space!

You feel something slip down your face. It's wet.

Are you crying?

Why would you be crying?

You are in pain, so it wouldn't be so far fetched to assume that you ARE crying.

You continue to attempt to move.

* * *

><p>It's been a day, and your bro still hasn't moved.<p>

He's still warm, though.

You hope that he's gone into some kind of weird, deep human sleep.

You don't want your bro to be dead. You don't want to be alone again.

Your dancestor is alright, but he's pretty quiet when not using his chucklevoodoos and he's not the most social motherfucker.

You get lonely.

You ARE lonely.

Your Karbro left you.

You can't blame him.

You killed him and broke up with him in some of the timelines.

Even your morail (Ex-morailexmorailexmorailexmorailexmorailexmorailexmorailexmorailexmorail.) can't stand to be near you after what you've done.

The others can't and couldn't stand to be near you either, after what you've done.

Nepsis, Eqbro.

Jadesis and her Rose human.

The dog girl and Tavbr-.

Tavbro.

Your overwhelmed with grief once again and your eyes flash a deep, dark orange color.

Motherfucker never returned your feelings.

That's all wicked and shit, though.

You're cool with it.

Who'd (As your ex-morail would say.) want to bother with your clown ass, anyway? You're just a piece of useless shit.

You're cool with it.

Really.

A sob tears itself from your throat, echoing in the all consuming silence of the hive.

* * *

><p>You managed to twitch a toe. Congradulations.<p>

Now, let's work on actually accomplishing something important, no?

Like talking.

Or moving a limb, like your leg, or head.

How about your arm?

OR YOU EYES, YOU DUMB GOOFBALL AND A HALF!

With your new found control of your toe, you try to convince your eyes to open.

By some miracle (The thought brings on a wave of fondness, but you just can't remember WHY!)you're able to open them.

And then you proceed to freak out and reck the fucking place.

Or, you would, if you could move more than your eyelids and a toe.

But, you still freak out internally, so it counts, right? Right.

You observe what appears to be a vision from your nightmares: a dark clown that's covered in blood, except, wait, are those HORNS?! CLAWS?!

Is that-? It sure is!

The thing's got grey skin!

Wow!

You daydream and start to briefly imagine all the pranks you could pull off if you managed to get on its good side.

Your imagining bringing it home to your dad as your fiance, when you hear loud, wrenched sobbing.

You're confused.

You look around, trying to see where it is coming from, but can spot nothing in your line of vision besides your self, the dark clown, and various medical supplies.

You look around again.

And hestiantly conclude that, since it seems like only you and the clown are in the room, the sobbing is either coming from YOU or the clown.

You also conclude that since you were in a tremendous amount of pain, it wouldn't be too far off to assume you're crying, right? Right.

You look to the clown anyway.

* * *

><p>Your sobbing has gotten worse.<p>

You can't bring yourself to care about how unmirthful it is.

You just have to let the wick-nasty feelings out, you know?

They can make you go crazy.

You would know.

Whimpers and whines fall from your throat.

You hate this.

You want it to stop.

But you deserve it.

You know you do.

So you continue to sob and try to let all of those wicked feelings go.

Your don't sucecced.

* * *

><p>You've been studying the clown as it wailed in misery.<p>

You-.

You feel-.

You want-.

You feel bad for it, even if it WAS the one most likely to have hurt you, being the only one around and covered in blood and all.

But, then, why's it crying?

Wouldn't it be happy or satisfied with what is has done or delirously happy or something?

And then, what would the medical supplies be out for?

Torture?

Possibly.

There WERE quiet a few wickedly sharp tools in that kit and a pair of sisscors lying near you, but, what were the bandages and disinfectants out for then?

Surely not with the purpose of hurting him.

You decide to study the clown more closely, your heart giving a painful pang at the site of it, though you're not sure why.

I mean, you don't even know the thing, right? Right.

So, you shouldn't feel bad for it when it is not your friend, it poses a potential threat, and you haven't even properly met it yet, right? Right?

But you do, and so you try to -once again- move.

But you can't.

Your body still hurts too much and you can still only move your eyelids and your toes.

So you try speaking again.

and just when you're about to give up on the fifth try-.

"Hey." You croak softly, voice barely a whisper.

It stills.

* * *

><p>You had been trying to muffle your cries, you'd been self-indulgent enough today and it was time to get your head screwed back on right.<p>

And, besides, you had a bro to tend to, right? Right.

You're sniffling, a handful more wails, moans, and whimpers falling past your throat, when, suddenly, you think you hear something.

Specifically?

The barest of hints of your bro's voice teasing your thinkpan.

You still.

You turn around.

And stare in shock at the open eyes returning your gaze.

He's awake.

* * *

><p>You're still yourself, relexively, as its body tenses and slowly turns around.<p>

You stare.

You can't help it.

It has yellow and grey eyes for Pete's sake!

YELLOW. AND. GREY. EYES!

You continue to stare.

What you could glimpse from the back was only a hint, a meager summary of the full circus act.

The horns seem even taller.

They easily reach two feet. Maybe three.

He has razor-like teeth.

Great.

As if the horns and talons weren't bad enough, your mind has decided to draw a picture of your worst nightmare with shark teeth. Gee, thanks, brain.

You further examine it.

It's wearing polka dotted pants and a black tee-shirt with a weird sign on it that almost looks like the word "no".

You find this -interesting, at least.

It's wearing purple converses and appears to have on some kind of face paint. That or that is one AWESOME birthmark!

A couple of its wild locks are sticking to its face.

Probably from blood.

Or tears.

Or the face paint.

Or sweat.

It could be anything, really.

You feel even worse for it.

It is then that you notice the tears rolling down its cheeks.

That is to say, the purple liquid that you are assuming are tears rolling down its cheeks.

You want to comfort it.

You feel the need to wrap your arms around this possibly agressive clown and tell it everything will be alright.

And you have no idea why.

So you try to move again.

Your arm.

You try to sit up.

Anything to wipe off that abandon look on its face.

The moment you try to lift yourself up onto your arm, you are pushed back down again.

Slightly harder than is comfortable and a tear of your own wets your cheek as your wounds a jostled.

* * *

><p>Your bro is awake.<p>

Your bro is AWAKE!

You're so overwhelmed with joy and relief, you almost miss a brother trying to all up and sit his bad self up, thus almost ripping open his injuries.

'Can't have a motherfucker all up and doing that, now can we?

In your haste and from the remants of the negative emotions and the relief, you're kind of shaky, unsteady, and perhaps push down a motherfucker harder than you should've.

* * *

><p>Okay, even you could amitt that that was stupid.<p>

You were bleeding.

You are wounded.

You have no idea what condition your body was in.

And if it wasn't for the pain?

You wouldn't care.

But there is pain. White-hot and jack-kniffing throughout your entire body.

The clown's also kind of scaring you. You've never liked clowns before but the way this one looked so joyful when you caught it's attention was-.

Well, it was kind of heart-warming. And heart-wrenching.

With tears still streaming down its cheeks, hair plastered to its face paint, its ridicoulous get up, and the joyous look on its face.

Well, you wanted to hug it before.

You NEED to hug it now.

Maybe it's your over-friendly nature. Maybe it's the fact you could feel bad for even a scary-ass murdering (You still don't know if it had a part in hurting you.) clown, but, for some reason your heart is telling you that the clown shouldn't look like that.

And, for a brief second, you think you can recall half-forgotten memories of a painted smile, hestitant, hoping, longing, before they rush out of your grasp and your left with nothing again.

* * *

><p>Your bro's awake.<p>

You can't get the thought out of your head.

It replays again and again and again. A steady drum beat matching the one from your blood pusher.

You also possibly just hurt your bro.

You feel guilty.

And angry with yourself.

Can you even NOT fuck up ONE SIMPLE THING?!

For a fleeting second, you feel the need to punish yourself.

You've already mauled your bro (Your flush crush, your only friend, the ONLY ONE WHO CAN EVEN STAND TO BE AROUND YOU!), betrayed his trust, and-.

No, it didn't happen, -why are you even thinking about that?! (Because it's REAL, it HAPPENED; YOU-.)

"I DIDN'T MOTHERFUCKING DO ANYTHING! SHUT THE FUCK UP MOTHERFUCKER!"

* * *

><p>You blink your eyes.<p>

Your crying again.

But you don't think its from the pain this time.

You don't know why you're crying.

It's not like that really happened or anything.

You don't know this clown, so how could you have memories of it?

Those weird fragments of a memory were probably just half forgotten movies or nightmares from when you were a little kid.

Nothing to cry about.

So the question is: Why are you?

You look to the clown.

As if that would give you answers.

You notice that there is something weird going on with the clown, though.

It has multiple expressions flying across its face.

Each there for what seems like an eternity, but is actually only there for but a brief second before it is gone as fast as it appeared.

Unexplainable joy.

Overwhelming guilt.

Lus-. (No, that can't be. Why are you even thinking it?)

Anger.

Terrible.

Consuming.

Hatred.

You open you mouth, concerned about the clown for reason you can't explain.

"Hey." You say softly.

Nothing.

Only growing anger.

You're wary now, but you still feel worried about the clown, so you try again.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Silence.

Nothing moves.

No sounds.

The only noise in the room is his and your breathing.

"Shut up."

You're shocked. And hurt. Why would you be hurt?

"Wha-."

"I DIDN'T MOTHERFUCKING DO ANYTHING! SHUT THE FUCK UP MOTHERFUCKER!"


End file.
